The dead visited this morning: sisters,parents, aunts and uncles, old professorsand friends—faces so vivid they againappeared in my room through memory’s lens.Did families stage a yard sale laterin the Catholic cemetery on Common,a table set up in the center, orange watercooler in view? But I am mistaken.It’s All Souls Day when people assembleto clean the crumbling graves and to honortheir dead, whose remnant bones sometimes tumblefrom ancient crypts, although their souls have soaredlike skeins of starlings, whose sudden flightin sunlight dyes wings a shimmer of white.
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